In Bawku, where gunshots punctuate the night and fear lingers with every footstep, there’s another war, quiet, bloody, and rarely spoken of. It is fought not with rifles, but with rags, shame, and silence. It is period poverty. 

For girls like 13-year-old Gifty, it is a monthly sentence of fear and forgotten dignity. When her period arrives, her world narrows. Concentrating in school becomes nearly impossible as she worries about leaks, odours, and the shame of stained uniforms. 

“Even using the rag it can let you be sick. It's not hygienic,” she says with quiet pain.

“Sometimes I feel pains. It's not comfortable for me.”

Her first menstruation came during curfew. With no access to sanitary products and no older female siblings to help, her mother handed her a piece of cloth. 

“She said, ‘Manage it until I get money,’” Gifty recounts. Managing means risking infections, enduring shame, and missing school — all while gunfire threatens from every direction.

Gifty, not her real name, dreams of becoming a doctor. But she’s unsure her ambition can survive the crossfire. “It's not every day I get the chance to come to school.

Even when I’m studying, gunshots distract me. I’m scared even in my own house.

I don’t think I can be a doctor,” she says, her voice trembling.

She is not alone.

Sixteen-year-old Rita, also a pseudonym, had her first period in church.

Too afraid to tell her guardian, she confided in a friend and quietly cut pieces of cloth to use.

“My aunt would’ve scolded me and told me to call my father. But he’s not doing anything either.

So I just handle it myself.”

Rita was abandoned by her mother and now lives with an elderly aunt.

Sanitary pads are a luxury she cannot afford. And like Gifty, Rita also dreams of becoming a doctor.

But her hope fades each time bullets rain down. 

“Once, something hit the roof while we were in class. They said it was a bullet.

We all ran home. But if a bullet hits you while running, that’s it.”

Teachers witness this trauma every day. Madam Cecilia Azoka, known affectionately as “Madam Office,” teaches at the Bawku Methodist Cluster.

She oversees over 250 girls and sees how menstruation, poverty, and fear converge to keep girls from class. 

“Movement is restricted. Parents can’t even cross to other areas to work or sell. Getting money to buy pads is a struggle,” she says.

The struggle is not just economic. It's emotional and cultural.

Girls internalise shame and silence.

They miss school days every month; some never return. In conflict-affected homes, mothers are overstretched. 

“With four kids, it hasn’t been easy,” Gifty’s mother, a basic school teacher, admits.

“Two of my daughters are teenagers. I try to teach them menstrual hygiene, but I can’t always afford pads.”

According to the Ghana Education Service in Bawku, there are 170 public schools serving over 27,000 pupils.

Yet only 995 trained teachers remain due to the conflict.

This severe shortage has a disproportionate impact on girls, especially during menstruation.

Madam Matilda Abolga, the Municipal Girl-Child Officer, links the crisis to a wider failure in addressing gender-specific challenges in conflict zones.

“Mothers now do every job possible to feed their families.

They can’t afford pads.

They barely offer their girls proper sexual education,” she explains.

“They only say things like ‘don’t sleep with a man,’ but that’s all.”

The consequences are grave. Azara Issifu, a Public Health Nurse in Bawku, warns of serious health risks associated with using rags. 

“You can get infections from unhygienic clothes.

If not treated properly, these infections can lead to complications. And treatment is expensive—sometimes more than the cost of a sanitary pad.”

This reflects a larger systemic gap. Goal 3 of the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) calls for good health and well-being.

But for girls in Bawku, that goal feels out of reach — a luxury reserved for places not plagued by conflict and poverty.

Non-governmental organisations are stepping in.

Youth Harvest Foundation Ghana is one such group fighting to reduce period poverty in conflict zones. Abigail Adumolga, a gender specialist with the organisation, stresses the urgent need for community engagement. 

“Even in stable communities, girls struggle to afford pads.

In conflict areas like Bawku, girls are bleeding without protection.

They’re afraid to go to the market.

They can’t access basic menstrual hygiene,” she says.

She hopes the government’s promise of free sanitary pads will prioritise communities like Bawku.

“If girls are going to school without pads and dealing with conflict on top of that, it’s a humanitarian emergency,” she adds.

James Twene, Director of Gender in the Upper East Region, shares similar sentiments.

“Sanitary pads have been a challenge for adolescent girls, especially in rural and conflict-prone areas.

If the President’s free pad policy is implemented well, it could bring real change.

It’ll restore confidence and reduce absenteeism among girls,” he asserts.

But for now, girls like Gifty and Rita are left navigating a conflict zone in more ways than one.

They wake up unsure if they’ll make it to school — or if the blood on their clothes will come from menstruation or stray bullets.

As Gifty walks to class one morning, wearing a weary but determined expression, she clutches her books with one hand and balances hope with the other.

Today she is in school.

But tomorrow is uncertain.

The curfew may change.

The bullets may fly again.

Her flow may return, and she still might not have a pad.

She wants to become a doctor to heal others.

But who will heal her?

In Bawku, menstrual health is not just a personal issue; it is a humanitarian crisis demanding national attention.

Pads may be small, but to girls like Gifty and Rita, they represent more than comfort.

They represent the power to dream in peace, even amid the echo of gunshots.

Until period poverty is treated with the urgency it deserves, young girls in Bawku will continue to bleed in silence, battling bullets and holding on to broken dreams.

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